


The Illusionist

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slight D/s Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries on Irene for size.</p>
<p>
  <i>The scent of her perfume makes his mouth dry as he dabs it lightly on his wrists, his collarbone, careful to avoid the delicate pearls. He brings his arm up to his nose, inhaling deeply, his lips leaving traces of red where they touch the delicate skin of his wrist.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Illusionist

**Author's Note:**

> Procrastination, procrastination, la la la

Sherlock is wearing Irene’s battle dress.

Her bed is made neatly, and he fingers the soft cotton of a pillowcase, bare feet sticking slightly to the polished dark wood of her floor as he circles the room.

There’s something about being here (being _her_ ) that has his pulse skipping erratically in his throat, and he trails a finger over the dust clinging to her riding crop where it lies propped on a cabinet. 

Her rooms give him a wealth of information more than her skin ever did: the dresser with pots of powder and brushes and lipstick in twenty-two distinct shades of red, the wardrobe hung with silks in blue and green, periwinkle to lapis to chartreuse. He stands in front of her full-length mirror and paints his lower lip slowly, thickly, with Chanel in Red No.5.

If he turns just so, cocks his head a little to the side, slides his legs silkily against one another (the glide of her still-sharp razor against them had been wickedly delicious), then he can almost see her staring back at him. The red on his lips creates an illusion that’s both completely incongruous (the flat planes of his chest and hard pinking nipples, the soft weight of his cock against his thigh) and strangely alluring (soft, dark hair curling at the nape of her neck, the elegant arch of her white feet).

“She was quite glorious, wasn’t she?”

Mycroft is reflected behind him, leaning casually against the frame of her bedroom door, jacket slung over his shoulder. 

“You’re rather missing something, though.” 

He has stepped silently closer – barefoot, how odd – and he’s flicking open one of the drawers on the dresser, pulling out a short strand of cream-coloured pearls. They look at each other in the mirror as he drapes them around Sherlock’s neck and fastens the golden clasp. The illusion wavers. 

Sherlock considers the play of light on Mycroft’s features, and without second thought he stands, smears his thumb in the red of his mouth and draws it over Mycroft’s shapely cupids bow. It makes his smile seem oddly sinful, and Sherlock finds himself turning away. He feels hot, against all reason. 

The scent of her perfume makes his mouth dry as he dabs it lightly on his wrists, his collarbone, careful to avoid the delicate pearls. He brings his arm up to his nose, inhaling deeply, his lips leaving traces of red where they touch the delicate skin of his wrist.

When he turns back to the bed, Mycroft is stretched there, still dressed aside from the strangely vulnerable nakedness of his feet, and he’s twirling the black leather crop in his hands, stroking it up and down his inner arm. There’s a playful, lazy look about him.

“Stockings, if you will, my dear,” he says, tapping the bed with the crop. Laid out is a pair of black silk hold-ups, trimmed in lace. The feel of them as they slide up his calves is exquisite, and he feels Mycroft’s eyes crawling over him as he exhales a little panted breath.

“Have a look at yourself, will you?” comes Mycroft’s voice, dark and slow, thick with soft pleasure.

In front of the mirror, he stretches and points, wriggling his toes in their silken confines and stroking his legs carefully with just the tips of his fingers, making him shiver. With a twist of his neck, a coquettish tilt to his hips and a sharp-bright smile, _ah, yes,_ there she is. He licks his lip, a pink sliver of tongue over crimson. Shows his teeth. Turns back in hot triumph to the sight of Mycroft’s spread legs, his bare cock in a lazy, long-fingered grip. There’s a little flickering of eyelashes and a slight damp openness to his mouth that, from the waist up, are the only indications of what he’s doing.

The soft smack of the riding crop on the covers brings to his attention quite how long he’s been staring for. There’s an amused tilt to Mycroft’s mouth now, and he beckons Sherlock closer, twisting and kneeling up over him as he settles on his back, stockinged legs spread wide and wanton around Mycroft’s knees. Mycroft flicks his nipples gently with the crop.

“Oh,”

He smiles like a shark and does it again, sharp points of pleasure that make Sherlock bite back a whimper; his mouth looks like it’s been smeared with blood. The heat of him bleeds through the material of his trousers and onto Sherlock’s thighs - the only place they are touching - and Sherlock spreads his legs a little further, _want_ fizzing through him at the thought of how obscene they’re being; Mycroft almost fully dressed, cock dabbing a little wet spot against his pristine white shirt, Sherlock splayed naked and shameless below him. The door to the room is still open, the curtains tied.

He hooks his hands under his thighs and this time, when the black leather slaps against his nipple, he can’t help the shivering _Fuck_ that escapes him.

At that, Mycroft leans over him, dropping the crop and bending forward enough that he can feel the sudden, shocking heat of his brother’s cock against his arse. He tightens his grip on his knees, silk brushing against his cheek as he brings his legs up further still and Mycroft thrusts his hips in a slow, smooth motion that just _drags_ his cock over where Sherlock is spread wide open and Jesus that is so filthy and so, so good.

“Inside,” Sherlock groans, pushing and writhing and pressing. “God, inside me.”

If he angles himself just so, he can push against the blunt, slick heat that is the head of Mycroft’s cock and he squirms back, gasping as Mycroft moves away and pins him down mercilessly. 

The distinctive snap and click and the slick, wet sounds make him roll his eyes, but then Mycroft is pressing slowly forwards, and Sherlock can’t do much more than try to remember to breathe. At first it’s just a slippery, pressing slide over his sensitive hole which is _delicious_ but not at all what he wants, and spreading his legs wider isn’t helping. Mycroft just gently pushes and pushes until with a sudden, startling movement he slips just inside. Sherlock clenches down instinctively and Mycroft’s mouth drops open, tongue flickering out as his throat works. 

After a long moment of stillness he begins to move forward again, heat breaking in gorgeous shimmering waves all through Sherlock’s body, spilling pink onto his chest and neck. He squirms breathlessly, choking on a desperate groan as he arches his back and tries to force his brother deeper.

“Hush,” Mycroft murmurs, cracked, and usually such condescension would be maddening, but now it’s coupled with the smooth sliding press of Mycroft’s large, warm hand against his silky thigh and it only makes him gasp pathetically. Mycroft’s thumb plays with the top of a stocking and he pushes Sherlock’s legs so far up that the muscles of his groin begin to ache. 

“Lovely,” says Mycroft, and his eyes flit between Sherlock’s flushed, open-mouthed face and down to where Sherlock is stretched around his slowly moving cock. Sherlock squirms back against the rough scratch of his trousers, feeling the smooth cold pearls around his neck rolling against his collarbone. 

Mycroft’s leisurely movements are not nearly enough, not nearly hard or deep or fast enough but somehow the slow, minute intensity of it is breathtaking. Sherlock can feel every little movement inside him, the odd, aching stretch and pull that’s both strange and intensely erotic, the tiny pulse of Mycroft’s cock as he lightly plays with Sherlock’s nipples and makes him jerk and whine. Mycroft falls forward, head dropping to Sherlock’s shoulder as they rock slowly together, breathless little noises mingling. As Sherlock relaxes into him, so Mycroft begins to slip smoother and deeper inside him and after long minutes of slow fucking Sherlock can see the way his brother is biting his lip, can feel the trembling of his hands where they’ve moved to grip Sherlock’s ribs.

“Would you have done this to her?” Sherlock whispers, wrapping his legs around Mycroft’s back. He finds his answer in the way Mycroft jerks into him deeply as if he can’t help himself and in turn it makes him arch and moan. 

“She’d never be so easy as this,” he pants, lips dragging red over the shell of Mycroft’s ear. “I can’t decide which I like more; to think of you pink and sprawling under her heel, or to think of her spread out below you like this.”

Mycroft leans down then and presses his red smeared mouth to Sherlock’s, sliding his hands down to grip his hips and pushing in so slow and deep that it almost hurts from how good it is. His cufflinks are cold against Sherlock’s skin and their tongues slide together in brushes of hot, damp sweetness.

“Come on,” he whispers into Mycroft’s mouth, making his voice low and husky and just a little bit sweet, “come on, give it to me.”

Any other time and Mycroft might laugh at such a line, delivered with a throaty voice not his own, but he just gasps _Sherlock, ah,_ and grinds his hips forward with a helpless, desperate sound. Sherlock arches up, little noises bubbling their way out of his throat as Mycroft fucks him slow and deep and _perfect_

“Mycroft, _oh fuck, Mycroft,_ ” and She is gone and only Sherlock is left, stockinged toes curling against Mycroft’s back, breath coming in tense, strangled pants and he’s _aching_ to come. The fabric of Mycroft’s shirt flutters little touches onto his belly, his nipples.

“Oh, God. I’m going to – I’m –”

“Sherlock,” groans Mycroft, fucking him hard as he tenses and stills, knuckles white where they grip the sheets. Sherlock wrenches his eyes open and looks down in time to see one of Mycroft’s hands wrapping around the head of his cock, come spilling out between his fingers in long, sweet pulses.

He lets his legs drop from Mycroft’s back and collapses back bonelessly, on the edge of oversensitivity as Mycroft gathers him close and moves slowly inside him, breath harsh against his shoulder. Mycroft is slow and careful, though, and gradually it feels like thick, warm honey is spooling between his legs with every movement. Mycroft’s fingertips flutter against his knees as he comes with Sherlock’s name on his lips.

-

“Would she be scandalised, do you think?”

Mycroft’s fingers tug lightly at Sherlock’s thick curls, forcing an arch to his neck that’s as sweet as the fragrance dabbed at his pulse. Sherlock scrapes a tooth through the red on his lip and shivers.

“She always did have a talent for surprising us.”

-

Later, they leave the room as it is: the pillowcase smeared with red, her pearls left undone on the dresser, and the precise, curved indents of Sherlock’s teeth in the handle of the crop.

A little gift, Mycroft says. A thank you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for The Illusionist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/590290) by [ghoulkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghoulkitten/pseuds/ghoulkitten)




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